Double Deception

Chapter 9: Echoes of Deception

The house was silent, but my thoughts weren't.

Every creak in the floor, every sigh of the wind outside the window felt like an echo of her voice.

The phone still sat on the nightstand, its screen black but alive in my mind — those last two messages burned into my memory.

You shouldn't have made her cry.
She's mine now.

I'd stared at those words until dawn, convincing myself they were a prank — a cruel joke from some blocked number. But deep down, I knew better. It wasn't a stranger on the other end. It was her. Or rather, something inside her.

Emma.

Even after everything, she still found a way to haunt me.

The Hollow Morning

The light that spilled through the blinds was thin and cold. I hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, hadn't done anything but sit in the quiet and listen to the echo of my own pulse.

When I finally stood, it was out of necessity — to prove I still could. I walked into the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and lifted my gaze to the mirror.

For a moment, I didn't recognize the man staring back. My eyes were bloodshot, my jaw tight, my reflection fractured by the spiderweb crack running down the corner of the glass.

I leaned closer, studying my own face, searching for something — an answer, maybe, or the version of myself that existed before all this.

"What did you miss?" I whispered. "What did she hide right in front of you?"

But the mirror had no answers, only the same tired eyes looking back, filled with the same quiet accusation.

Behind me, my phone buzzed once on the counter.

My heart jumped, but when I turned it over, the screen was blank. No new messages. Just my own reflection staring back.

The Weight of the Past

I drifted through the day in a haze, surrounded by reminders of her. Her mug sat in the sink, the faint stain of coffee at the rim. Her perfume still lingered in the fabric of the couch.

Everywhere I looked, she was there — not Emily, not Emma, but some invisible residue of both.

By mid-afternoon, the memories started pushing their way in. Not the good ones. Not at first.

The arguments. The small inconsistencies. The times she swore she didn't remember something we'd just talked about.

Once, I'd surprised her with dinner reservations for her birthday. She'd looked genuinely confused — said she didn't remember telling me which restaurant she liked. I'd laughed it off, thinking she was teasing.

Now I wondered which version of her had told me in the first place.

The memories came faster after that — a flood I couldn't stop.

The way she'd sometimes switch perfume halfway through a bottle. The different handwriting on her notes — same words, different pressure, different curves of the letters. The nights she came home and seemed... brighter, freer, like someone had peeled away her restraint.

I used to love those nights. I used to think they were glimpses of her loosening up, of letting me in.

Now I realized they were something else entirely.

A different person looking out through the same eyes.

The Call

By evening, I couldn't take the silence anymore. I picked up my phone and called Marcus.